


Days of Sunshine

by norsellie (flamewarrior)



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arena Stage, Arena Theater Company, Bisexual Erasure, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Peggy Carter, Cold War, Daughters of Bilitis, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Gay Pride, Henry Kissinger is an ass, Lesbian Angie Martinelli, Masturbation, McCarthy era, Period Typical Gender Binarism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/norsellie
Summary: After Peggy leaves New York for Los Angeles, Angie and she lose touch. But a chance meeting on a DC street brings them back into each other's lives — and brings questions about both her present and her future for Peggy.





	Days of Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whatthefoucault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/gifts).



> As soon as I saw Sami's art, I knew I wanted to write the story to go with it. Middle aged queer women at Pride in the 1970s? SIGN. ME. UP!
> 
> A huge thank you is due to Sami, not only for the amazing art, but also for unstinting encouragement and patience, as well as pulling last minute beta duty. My thanks also to Juulna, who also went above and beyond in the beta department. Any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this queer little love story!

[](https://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/185733743481/days-of-sunshine-a-collaboration-for-the-cap)

* * *

**1947**

Peggy transferred the vial from her right hand to her left to get at the handkerchief in the pocket on the right of her jacket. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, where the tears that had been prickling and threatening her mascara all evening had begun to form. 

This was it; this was really goodbye. 

She sniffed surreptitiously, stuffed the handkerchief back into her pocket, and took the vial once more in the solid grip of her right hand. She gripped the stopper between her left thumb and forefinger, and pulled; then, with a swift prayer to a God she was no longer sure she believed in, she poured the sample out, into the waters of the East River. In the twilight, the darkness of Steve’s blood blended into the murky tide waters without a trace.

“Goodbye, my darling,” she whispered, and swallowed around the lump in her throat. She retrieved her handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes for one last time. Then, chiding herself with a “No time for that, my girl,” she turned her back on the river, and began her walk home.

\--

“Hey there, English!” 

Angie’s bright voice rang out in the hallway, greeting Peggy as she closed the front door of their shared house behind her.

“Hello, Angie,” she replied, trying to pick up her mood.

Angie paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked more closely at Peggy’s face. Then she nodded decisively. 

“Come on,” she said, “cocktail time. You can tell Angie all about it.” Angie tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “Or we can rag on Howard. Your choice.”

Angie winked, and led the way through to the parlour, where Howard kept the drinks cabinet stocked to party levels at all times. He didn’t intrude into their lives — well, not too much — but he did try to look after them, in his own way. Angie made the most of the abundance of bottles to make them both Manhattans, while Peggy sank back into one corner of the sofa, and kicked off her shoes. 

Angie rounded the back of the sofa and came into sight, and Peggy let out a sigh of gratitude as Angie placed the cocktail glass in her outstretched hand. She took a gulp of it, savouring the tang of the rye, and the way the vermouth and bitters sharpened her awareness of her tongue and teeth. Angie sat beside her, one elegant arm stretched along the back of the sofa towards Peggy, and sipped her own drink.

“Mmm, a cocktail does a girl good,” she remarked.

“Challenging day?” Peggy asked.

Angie shrugged. “No more than the usual. Diner’s the same as ever. So’s backstage. Always a creeping hand attached to a creep.” 

She gave a laugh that sounded more bitter than amused to Peggy’s ear. Then the purse of her lips gave way to a small smile, and a fond look settled on her face as she looked at Peggy. 

“It’s just good to come home and relax, and to have good company to relax with,” she said, punctuating her words with a gentle push of her stockinged toes against Peggy’s calf. Peggy felt herself unaccountably blushing. 

“I’m not going to be the best company this evening, I’m afraid, but it’s kind of you to say.”

She found herself reaching up for Angie’s hand, still stretched towards her on the back of the sofa, and wrapping their fingers lightly together. Angie kept their hands joined as she reached the short distance to brush a loose lock of hair off Peggy’s forehead. 

“You wanna talk about it,” Angie asked, and added, after a moment’s hesitation, “or let me help you forget about it?”

Angie brushed Peggy’s cheekbone lightly with her thumb, and her toes traced gently up and down Peggy’s leg. 

Peggy felt her heart rate picking up, and licked her bottom lip in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. She hadn’t felt this way around another woman since she’d had an unrequited pash on Jenny Hilliard in sixth form. That had been long months of heartache and anguished pining, accompanied by some truly atrocious attempts at poetry, which she had unceremoniously burned in the grate of the fire in her boarding school bedroom once the feelings had, finally and blessedly, passed.

The feeling Peggy had in this moment with Angie, though, was much more immediate: not an ache in her heart, but a tingle in her palms and a throb in her sex. She stroked her own thumb in circles over Angie’s palm, where they were still holding hands. 

“Forgetting…” Peggy cleared her throat against the hoarseness that had overtaken her voice. She placed her glass on the floor, giving herself a moment to collect herself. “Forgetting for a little while would be…” she looked into Angie’s eyes, which were looking back at her, clear and blue and patient, and told herself to stop being such a timid goose. “That would be very welcome,” she said at last, her voice finally firm and clear.

She angled her body towards Angie, and grazed the fingers of her free hand up Angie’s bare arm. Angie smiled as they leaned in to one another, and kissed, moist lips pressed together warmly. 

“Happy to oblige,” Angie murmured, and kissed Peggy again, clasping Peggy’s hand more firmly with her right hand, and cupping Peggy’s neck with her left. She sucked Peggy’s upper lip into her mouth, and slipped in her tongue with a quicksilver dart when Peggy’s mouth opened in a gasp. 

They kissed for long minutes. Peggy’s hand moved to Angie’s breast, stroking her nipple through her blouse and bra. Angie’s jaw fell open a little, breaking their kiss, and she gave a light groan. 

“Want to take this to my bedroom?” she asked, her voice a rasp coming from far back in her throat.

“Why, are you expecting company?” Peggy asked, punctuating her words with nips of her teeth along Angie’s neck. “We have no neighbours, the curtains are drawn, and besides, I rather fancy debauching you right here.”

Not that Peggy knew exactly what was involved in debauching another woman, but she was enjoying it so far, and excited to find out what came next.

“What makes you think you’ll be the one doing the debauching?” Angie asked, looking down at Peggy through her half-closed lids. “Anyway, I like to be comfortable,” she said, as she wrapped her hands around Peggy’s wrists, pausing her explorations, “so _I’m_ going to my bedroom.” 

Angie dropped her chin and looked directly into Peggy’s eyes as she continued that thought. Peggy found herself distracted by the clear blue of Angie’s eyes, and missed what came next. Angie gently shook Peggy’s wrists.

“Still with me, English?” she teased.

“Oh, yes, most definitely,” Peggy replied.

“Good.” Angie dropped a light kiss on Peggy’s nose. “Will you join me in my bedroom, so we can stretch out and _really_ enjoy one another?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Peggy said, “how could I refuse?”

\--

Angie woke to the darkness of her bedroom. She was unsure what had disturbed her sleep until Peggy let out a whimper, her hands twitching against Angie’s waist. Angie reached out and gently stroked Peggy’s hair, making shushing sounds, whispering comforting nonsense until Peggy settled again into stillness, broken only by the gentle rise and fall of her breath. 

Peggy’s face in the gloom was a pattern of chiaroscuro; what light there was highlighted her cheekbone, bright against the depths of shadow around her eyes. It was such a dear face, Angie thought, the woman behind it so strong and sharp and _present_. Angie knew she could be gone for Peggy if she let herself: her heart stood on the precipice of falling in love.

She gazed at Peggy’s face and forced herself to step back from that edge, felt the ache of it as she did so. She knew her head had to rule her heart here. Peggy would find a man one day who met her strength, marry him, and raise a passel of helions. Angie knew that for Peggy, this was just a little bit of comfort from a friend at a difficult moment. She had to be content to let it be what it was.

Angie closed her eyes on the moisture welling there, and fell back into sleep.

* * *

**1956-1957**

Angie hurried along New Hampshire Avenue, cursing her new shoes for the blisters rising on her heels. She so needed to make a good impression. Gaining a spot in a permanent company was the opportunity of a lifetime, and Angie was absolutely determined not to mess this up through something as stupid as being late for her first read through. 

She looked briefly left and right at the edge of the sidewalk, then hurried across the street, not really seeing where she was going in her rush. Suddenly, she found herself flung forward as her toe caught on a cobble pushing up through the new road surface. 

“Oh, hell,” she thought, hands flung out in front of her, her clutch going flying as she braced herself for the pain of her palms and knees hitting the asphalt.

But the pain never came.

Angie found her arms held in a firm grip, which kept her up as she found her feet again.

“Thank you!”

Her gratitude was heartfelt, her voice breathy with shock as she looked up into deep brown eyes under strong eyebrows, a cute nose, and the softest, reddest lips Angie had seen since 1947.

“Angie?” Her rescuer’s voice was rich, with an English accent; the features Angie was looking at resolved themselves at last.

“English? Oh my goodness, English!”

Angie gave a laugh of delight, and flung her arms around Peggy’s shoulders, wrapping herself firmly against the soft, thick wool of Peggy’s jacket. She was jolted from their joyful reunion by the honking of several car horns, and pulled away, but only far enough to rest her hands on Peggy’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length to fully take in her lovely face after nearly a decade of absence.

“What are you doing here in DC?” they both asked at the same moment, then laughed together at the synchrony.

“Let’s get out of the road,” said Peggy, firmly.

She bent down to pick up Angie’s clutch with one hand, then took Angie’s hand with the other. Angie followed her to the sidewalk, then took the lead and pulled Peggy out of the foot traffic and under the portico of the Old Heurich Brewery, home of the Arena Stage Company. They stood there for a moment, holding hands and gazing into one another’s eyes.

“I’m so glad to see you again,” said Angie, at last, smiling helplessly into Peggy’s beautiful face.

“And I you,” said Peggy, her own smile brilliant and glowing.

“You look wonderful,” Angie said, “as always.”

Peggy wrinkled her nose. “Flatterer,” she said, tilting her head down to look up at Angie through her lashes.

Before Angie’s face could get the blush going that was threatening at her cheeks, she felt a rough brush against her shoulder.

“Hey, Angie.” 

The voice came from behind her. She turned reluctantly away from Peggy towards the voice, and saw another young woman there, who looked vaguely familiar. Her cheeks were rosy from the November cold. What was her name…? That was it.

“Oh, hi, Betty,” Angie replied. 

Betty looked from Angie to Peggy, nodded to Peggy in the briefest of acknowledgements, then returned her attention to Angie.

“You’d better get a wriggle on,” she said. “Read through’s about to start.”

“I’ll be right there,” Angie replied, but found she was speaking to Betty’s back as she hurried on through the doors into the building.

“It sounds like you need to go,” said Peggy.

Angie sighed and nodded, taking her clutch back as Peggy handed it to her.

“Let me at least get your number,” she said. “I’d hate to bump into you like this and then not be able to get in touch again. It would be like spitting in the face of fate.”

“Well,” said Peggy, smirking, “at least I know where you work.”

Angie laughed. “I suppose so. Nonetheless…” She dug a small notepad and a stub of pencil out of the depths of her clutch and handed them to Peggy. “Please. Just some way to stay in touch.”

“Of course,” said Peggy, taking the pencil and notepad and quickly scribbling down a few lines in the spiky hand that had once been so familiar to Angie. Peggy closed the notepad and handed it all back to her. “And if I haven’t heard from you by Friday, I shall come and hunt you down.” Peggy’s voice was low, and she had a frown on her brow, but her mouth was smiling and her eyes were bright.

Angie threw her head back and laughed aloud. “You got it, English.”

They exchanged one last grip of their fingers, then Angie waved au revoir and headed in to her new job.

\--

Peggy ran a finger around the rim of her glass, and wondered if she’d misjudged things rather. She hadn’t fancied going all the way back to her apartment to change before coming out to the bar where she and Angie had agreed to meet; it was, after all, only a couple of blocks from her S.H.I.E.L.D. office. But it did mean that she was left sitting at the bar by herself, waiting for Angie, who was coming quite out of her way.

Although, it had been Angie who had suggested this bar in particular as a meeting place. Given the subtle and not so subtle appreciative looks she’d been getting from some of the other, exclusively female, clientele, Peggy was almost certain she knew the reason why. 

She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.

On the one hand, it meant that Angie trusted her, and also that she didn’t hold the fact that they had lost touch when Peggy had moved to Los Angeles against her. On the other hand, it meant that there was a high possibility that this was a date, which left Peggy feeling a little off-kilter. 

Apart from her rather intense friendships with Daniel and Reggie, Peggy hadn’t had what she would call real romance in her life since the tryst she and Angie had enjoyed in New York. And then, of course, there was that idiot McCarthy, and the swathe he was cutting through the ranks of government employees, because of who they loved, or because they believed in equality and justice. 

It made her want to spit. Only a decade after the end of the war, and the American government was doing things of which Hitler would heartily have approved. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been able to protect its agents and employees from McCarthy’s influence thus far, purely by the expedient of most of the Senate and House of Representatives not knowing of the agency’s existence, and those who did being sworn to silence on pain of a trial for treason. 

But it wouldn‘t do for her to lose her chance to influence S.H.I.E.L.D.’s direction by being caught up in McCarthy’s foolishness… thinking about all of which was a very cunning way of avoiding looking at her _feelings_ about being here: in a bar for lesbians, about to meet Angie, for what was almost certainly a date. 

Peggy snorted at herself gently, and took a sip of her margarita. God, that was good. She raised her glass at the barwoman, who winked at her in response. Peggy wrinkled her nose back and smiled. 

Well, come what may, she was here now: she might as well enjoy herself.

\--

Angie looked in the restroom mirror, fixing the tousles in her hair from a long day of rehearsals followed by the usual wrangle with public transit. She checked over her makeup, taking a moment to touch up her mascara and lipstick.

She knew this fussing over her appearance was foolish, knew that she was allowing herself to be overtaken by the twitterpated feeling in her belly. But if there was any chance, any chance at all, that Peggy might be interested in actually dating her, she was going to do everything in her power to help make that chance a reality. 

If her time in San Francisco had taught her anything it was just how special Peggy was, and how important it was not just to grab opportunities with both hands and a leg lock when life presented them to you, but also to _make_ opportunities happen. If Peggy was waiting for her at the bar, she knew she was in with at least a glimmer of a possibility that dating could be on the cards. The hotel bar wasn’t the most obvious lesbian meet up joint, but Peggy was a sharp cookie: if she hadn’t worked out what the place was within two minutes of arriving or less, Angie would eat her purse.

Finally happy with her appearance, Angie folded her raincoat down over her arm, and with a deep breath emerged from the restroom. She strode, with every appearance of confidence, across the lobby, down the hall, and into the bar; as she took in the room, a grin took over her face: there was Peggy, bold as brass and twice as gleaming, outshining everyone else in the room. And was she _flirting_ with Josie behind the bar? Well. This evening was looking better and better by the moment.

\--

[](https://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/185733598776/angie-and-peggy-are-finally-on-a-date-in-days-of)

“So,” said Angie. 

She couldn’t keep her eyes off of Peggy; heavens, but she was a sight for sore eyes.

“So,” replied Peggy, with a maddeningly cute smirk on her lips that dissolved into a grin. 

Angie laughed as they raised their glasses to one another. 

“But seriously, what are you doing in this swampland, Peggy?”

“Oh, the usual,” Peggy replied. “Just making sure the world doesn’t fall to tyranny and evil.”

“Oh, just that.” Angie said with a giggle. “Like when we met?” she asked, more seriously.

Peggy tilted her head consideringly.

“More or less,” she said eventually. “I do have a lot more to do with politicians now than back in New York, or in Los Angeles: I’m more deskbound.” Her face crinkled into a grimace. “I appreciate the relative lack of danger, now that I’m no longer a spring chicken, but it’s not a trade I’m entirely happy with. There’s not anything else I can really tell you about it, I’m afraid.” She took a sip of her drink. “What about you? The acting’s taken off, I assume?”

“It sure has!” Angie replied, powerless to stop the smile spreading across her face at the feeling of elation which still felt so new. It made her look goofy, she was sure of it.

“Tell me about it,” invited Peggy. 

“Alright,” Angie said, pondering where to start. “Hmmm. Well, when you left for Los Angeles I carried on waiting tables and getting the occasional bit part off off Broadway. Then I fell in love.” Angie took a deep breath, gathering her courage. “Her name was Max; she completely swept me off my feet. She was so chic. She inherited a load from her maiden aunt while we were dating, and decided to move to San Francisco. I was so gaga over her I just upped and followed. I was so swept up in her, I didn’t even leave a forwarding address. Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright, darling,” Peggy said. “Love makes fools of us all, at some point in our lives.”

Angie smiled in gratitude at Peggy’s easy acceptance of her apology, and reached out to squeeze her hand where it was resting on the bar.

“Thanks,” she continued. “It wasn’t the most sensible decision I’ve ever made. But I certainly learned a lot. I ended up doing just the same as I had in New York: waiting tables, with the occasional acting role here and there. But Max got heavily involved with the more political end of the scene in San Francisco. 

“She joined a new group called The Daughters of Bilitis, and took me along to meetings with her. It was… it was confusing and exciting in equal measures. Here were these women, confident in who they were, coming together to try to make a space for themselves in a hostile world. But at the same time, they were so… rigid. 

“Part of their approach to being accepted in society was all about making ourselves as womanly and feminine as we could possibly be. I mean, I’m as femme as they come, but that’s my choice, you know?”

Peggy simply tilted her head, and gestured for Angie to continue.

“Well, Max was always kinda butch. She cut her hair short. She wore slacks day to day, jeans and shirts when she was slumming it, or men’s suits she’d had tailored to fit when she was going out somewhere fancy. The two women who’d formed the Daughters were always on at her to grow her hair, to wear a skirt. Max in a skirt! I just couldn’t imagine it. 

“I think Max started to resent me for being so feminine, and so easily accepted, not just in the Daughters, but out on the street. San Francisco is about one of the queerest places it’s possible to live, but we’d still get insults and worse when we went out together. And it was always Max who would get the abuse and the punches thrown at her. I’d get invitations to leave her for them from men, or “oh honey, she’s no good for you” from women.

“In the end, I think she just couldn’t stand it any more. We’d been living in the city, but she started having an affair with an artist who lived up in Marin County. I didn’t find that out until later.”

Angie paused, the remembered pain of that discovery seizing her heart again.

“Oh, darling,” Peggy said, resting her hand on top of Angie’s. “I’m so sorry. You deserved better.”

“Thanks, Pegs,” Angie responded, pulling herself together. “It was probably a good thing, in the end. She kicked me out of the apartment we’d been sharing — but that she’d been paying for — and moved up to Marin, leaving me stranded. Some of the friends I’d made through the Daughters put me up for a while.

“Then I heard about Arena Stage having places open for new actors to join their permanent company here in DC, so I scraped the money together to get here, and was lucky enough to land one of the spots.”

“I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it, darling,” Peggy replied. “They simply saw your talent for what it is.”

Angie squirmed inwardly, and could feel her cheeks warming at the compliment.

“Anyway, that’s how I ended up here,” she said, completing her story. “When we bumped into each other, I was on my way to first read through for my first speaking part at Arena.”

“Well, if you have Max’s address, I should send her a thank you card,” Peggy responded, amusement in her tone, and the quirk of a smile at her mouth. “If she hadn’t dumped you and left you homeless, we might never have met again, and I’d have gone the rest of my life without your lovely company.”

Angie felt herself blushing anew.

“So many compliments, English,” she said. “Be careful there, you’ll give me the wrong impression.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we,” Peggy said, and winked.

\--

Peggy lay on top of her covers, wearing nothing but a slip, her usual heavy, restrictive undergarments abandoned for the night. The air was cool, damp with the day’s rain, and Peggy was glad of it. She welcomed the goosebumps on her arms. She needed _something_ to calm her excitement after the conversation she’d had with Angie that evening. 

Well, if she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t exactly the conversation per se that had raised her temperature. That had been Angie herself. She had been… the only word for it was radiant, everything that Peggy remembered her being, and more. Angie had all of the verve and beauty she had had in New York, but added to that had been a new sense of maturity: not the boring kind, weighed down by responsibilities and social expectations, but a certainty in who she was and what she wanted. 

Peggy had found it electrifying. She felt a ripple of that now, spreading across her skin, causing the hairs on her body to rise for a completely different reason than the coolness of the night air.

And Angie had been so forthright and frank about who she was and what she’d done since Peggy had left for Los Angeles. She had shared all of it with Peggy: her move from New York to San Francisco to be with a female lover; her membership of the lesbian scene in the city; her excitement at being part of the formation of a lesbian campaign group, The Daughters of Bilitis; her disillusionment with the way the group was run; her bitter break up from her lover; her decision to leave for pastures new to soothe her heart; her excitement at landing a place in the Arena Theatre Company.

Peggy remembered the vitality and dramatic flare with which Angie had told her story, the red of her lips as she spoke, the light in her eyes. Another, older memory overlaid itself on this evening’s in Peggy’s mind: Angie’s red lips open in a gasp of pleasure, her eyes closed and brow delicately wrinkled as Peggy drove three fingers inside of her; her cries, muffled by a pale hand, as Peggy licked relentlessly at her sex until Angie came; her gasping as Peggy continued until Angie came again, and again.

In the here and now, Peggy brought her fingers to her mouth. She sucked them to get them wet, then stroked them down over her slip to her nipples, rubbing and rolling for a while, reliving events almost a decade gone, yet still vivid and hot in her memory and her body. 

She brought her right hand down, palm flat, pressing silk against her belly, against her bush, pushing her fingers against her sex through the fabric. Her clit throbbed as she brushed past it, and wetness soaked through the slip as she pressed a fingertip into herself.

Willing to tease herself no longer, she pulled the slip out of the way, and rubbed her fingers flat against herself, pinching harder at her nipple with her left hand as she alternated pressing against her clit with pushing one, two, three fingers deep inside herself. She stroked up against her insides, feeling the rush of pleasure that came every time she found the right bit of slick, spongy flesh.

Finally, she brought her left hand down to join her right, pressing all four fingers in and out of herself, faster and faster, as she rubbed her wet fingertips over her clit until she was seized by the crash of her orgasm, overtaking her, body and mind.

After the last ripples had ceased shaking through her, and her heaving breath had finally calmed a little, Peggy let her arms flop, jelly-like, onto the bed covers. 

_Yes_ , she thought to herself. **_Yes_**.

\--

Peggy had been dating Angie for nearly a year, now. She had to be careful, of course, not to be seen with her too much out and about, where anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. or any of the committees Peggy served on or reported to would be likely to see. 

While they shared an apartment — a _two_ bedroomed apartment — it was easy enough to explain that away as two spinsters with careers reducing their costs and gaining some companionship. Visits to lesbian bars and cafes were a carefully planned and occasional respite: there was danger of being seen going there, but once inside, even if Peggy saw someone from work, or they saw her, their mutual silence was assured.

They could, though, go out with some of the gay men who were members of Angie’s repertory company, using a fictional double date as cover for a real one. Peggy and Angie couldn’t display the affection for one another they really felt, and of course they had to behave attentively to their male ‘dates’, and kiss them goodnight on the doorstep occasionally, to keep up the act. But then, acting was what three of the four of them did for a living.

After one such evening out, when Angie’s date had been a particularly attractive young man, Peggy remarked, “Goodness, Roger was certainly a delight for the eyes.”

But instead of the joking reply Peggy had expected, Angie remained silent, a frown spreading across her forehead. 

“What’s wrong, darling?” Peggy asked.

“I… I thought you were with me now?” Angie’s question was quiet, her voice uncertain.

“Darling, I don’t understand. Of course I’m with you now. We’re living together for goodness sake,” Peggy replied.

“But if you’re attracted to men, why are you with me?” Angie’s voice wobbled.

Peggy, feeling as bewildered as Angie looked, got up and moved to sit next to her on the settee, putting her arm around her and pulling her close.

“Because I love you, silly,” she dropped her voice to a whisper and spoke up against Angie’s ear, “and you’re sexy as hell.”

Angie giggled, as Peggy had intended, and swept a tear from her eye with a fingertip. Peggy leaned in for a kiss which Angie returned with interest, and that seemed to be that.

But later, in bed, Angie said, “I’m glad you’re with me, and that you love me — so glad, and so happy — but…” then ground to a halt.

“Hmmm?” Peggy was more than ready for sleep, but Angie sounded like she needed to get out whatever was on her mind.

“Well, if you could be with a man, why would you be with a woman?”

At that question, Peggy became fully awake. 

“It is possible to be attracted to both men and women, you know,” she replied, rather tartly. 

Angie chewed her lip for a moment, eyes lowered.

“I… I guess I’ll take your word for it,” she said, returning her gaze to Peggy’s face. “But then, why didn’t you ever find a man? Get married?” she continued, confusion clear in her tone.

Peggy’s heart broke to hear it. Did Angie really regard women as a poor second choice, if marriage to a man was an option? She thought for a moment before replying.

“I did have the chance, a couple of times, while I was in LA,” she said, a more reflective tone in her voice, “but for one thing, for me to keep my job and income as a married woman would have been a long, hard fight. I could have done it, but damned few men are worth that kind of effort. For another, it was hard enough being taken seriously as a female agent, let alone as some man’s wife. I chose financial independence and professional respect over romance and family life.”

“Don’t you regret it?” Angie asked, still clearly bewildered. “You could have held hands and kissed your husband while walking down the street. People would have _smiled_ at you for it, and thought it wonderful, not hurled insults at you, and worse. You could have had children...”

“Darling, darling, it’s alright,” Peggy said, stroking Angie’s hair, attempting to calm her agitation. “I don’t regret it one single bit. Those things would have been nice, but I would rather have myself and my self respect. And how could I regret it now, when I have you?”

She smiled at Angie, who looked searchingly at her for a moment, then smiled back, closed her eyes and cuddled into Peggy’s arms.

“You are something else, English,” she whispered, and they both settled down to sleep.

* * *

1961

“That man is an _ass_!” 

Peggy had barely shut the door behind her before she began her hissed fuming. Usually she would wait until she’d removed her shoes and coat, and was sitting in her armchair with a large glass of wine or a gin and tonic before she got started. Things must be getting worse.

“What’s he done this time?” Angie asked, sweetly, moving to the drinks cabinet.

Peggy gave her a look of begrudging amusement from the corner of her eye before she resumed her venting.

“Honestly, I know he’s reputedly a genius, but his ideas are so… reckless! It’s clear he’s never had to live with the consequences of any military strategy he’s developed; he doesn’t seem to think of human beings as anything except tokens to be moved around the geopolitical board, and wiped out when it’s useful or expedient to do so.”

Angie handed her a neat scotch, but Peggy took a break from her tirade only long enough to take a large slug before continuing.

“Do you know what he said in a meeting today? He said, _Our nuclear arsenal shouldn’t just be an empty threat. It’s just another set of weaponry to use to get what we want._ I mean, you’d think the man had never heard of Hiroshima or Nagasaki! Oh, God, I know I shouldn’t be telling you all this, Ang, but no-one at work is willing to listen; they all think the sun shines out of the Kissinger’s arse. And to top it all off, he didn’t recognise me _again_ today. He asked me to ‘top his coffee up, there’s a good girl.’ I could have screamed!”

Peggy finished off her scotch in two more gulps, rolling the glass of the tumbler against her forehead when she was done. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Angie said, sitting on the arm of the chair and rubbing Peggy’s back. “At least he’s just one man. He can’t get in the way of _all_ of the good you’re doing.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Peggy answered, her voice soft and sounding tired. “He’s becoming incredibly influential. He’s even got Howard singing his praises. And that man is not the only one with stupid, reckless ideas on foreign policy. 

“You can see it everywhere! This gearing up for a war with Vietnam. The whole Bay of Pigs fiasco. And the negotiations over Berlin had to be stopped last year because of a decision made by someone _this_ close to having a big wedge of influence in S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

Peggy held her forefinger and thumb a bare sixteenth of an inch apart. 

“And at home there are factions trying to get S.H.I.E.L.D. roped in to spying on and disrupting the work of civil rights activists. _Civil rights_ activists. Civil rights were exactly what Howard and Colonel Philips and I started this organisation to protect, and make sure there was a chance to extend to as many people as possible, not keep them locked away just for the ‘right’ kind of people. It’s what we fought a whole bloody war for, for goodness’ sake.”

Peggy looked up at Angie, her beautiful brown eyes wide and — something Angie had never seen there before — scared. Angie wrapped her arm around Peggy’s shoulder and pulled her in to rest against her breast.

“You can best them all, English. I know you can,” she said softly into Peggy’s hair.

“I’m not sure I can, this time, Angie,” Peggy replied. “I’m really not.”

\--

Peggy had never been a sentimental woman: faced with change and loss, she adapted, face forward. But this loss… 

She checked her appearance one last time in the hallway mirror. She would be attending her mother’s funeral without any immediate family connections to comfort her; the arrangements all having been made over the telephone from Washington, via the work of Mrs. Minns, who had ‘done’ for her mother, making sure the house was neat as a pin, and her mother well cared for, right up to the end. 

There would, however, be plenty of relatives from the extended family to rake Peggy over for any inappropriate Americanisms of dress, manner or speech. Having judged herself to look suitably demure in a calf length black dress — long sleeves, of course — and a black raincoat, she sat down on the stairs and waited for her taxi. 

When she arrived at the parish church, the funeral itself was all completely proper, with the standard, Church of England service. The vicar spoke his platitudes; the choir sang (rather beautifully); the congregation all stood up and sat down and knelt at the correct moments. 

Peggy had known all the appropriate movements by heart since her early girlhood. The familiar words and prayers and hymns were comforting enough that she drifted along on them, noticing nothing much during the service except how bright the church looked now, walls and ceiling whitewashed, and topped by gold-painted cornices. She remembered it as a dark and dreary place, the only points of light the stained glass windows.

Although she had been rather dreading it, Peggy found the tea after the funeral, back at the house, rather enjoyable. She fell into conversation with a German woman named Anna, a neighbour from down the road, who had apparently become friendly with Peggy’s mother over the past 20 years, and had the most interesting ideas about childcare and marital relations. It certainly beat listening to yet another snide remark, thinly veiled as concern, from this or that cousin-twice-removed regarding her status as a spinster.

God, she missed Angie at those moments. Quite apart from Peggy simply _missing_ her, Angie always knew just what to say to turn those remarks to humour, or to another topic entirely. Peggy was good at that when it came to politicians and advisors and agents, but when it came to family… Well, she had never been much one for family, not since Michael had died, at least.

Dear Michael. What would he have made of Peggy’s life, had he lived? What kind of life would Peggy have had, for that matter? 

Well, it didn’t do to dwell on musings about things that could not, in any case, be changed. 

The next day, Peggy attended her appointment with the family solicitor, punctual and to the point. She didn’t see any point in observing the pleasantries; this wasn’t a man who she needed to maintain any kind of relationship with beyond the most basic civility. And she was tired. She was so very, very tired.

Her mother’s will held no surprises. Amanda Carter had not been a woman blessed with any great range of imagination, nor desire to go beyond tradition. Peggy, she knew, had been a puzzle and a worry to her mother from the day she could walk. But Peggy had no doubt that her mother had always loved her, in her own, confused way, and that even if that kind of sentiment hadn’t been part of their relationship, she would have done what she believed to be the right thing.

And so it turned out. Peggy’s mother left her her entire estate, except for a generous annuity gifted to Mrs. Minns. 

A small, mean part of Peggy thought of all those rigid, self-righteous vultures at her mother’s funeral and felt fiercely glad. The rest of her was overtaken by a feeling of relief, which left her full of confusion and guilt. 

It took her the whole of her journey back to Washington to work out where that feeling came from, but by the time she landed at National Airport, she already had a plan of attack forming in her mind. 

It was time to make some changes.

\--

Peggy and Angie sat at their dining table. It was a beautiful mahogany piece, with gateleg folding leaves at each end, but not a single inch of the warm brown of its surface was visible, because it was entirely covered with university prospectuses.

“Why did I think this was a good idea again?” groaned Peggy.

“Because you need to do something with your life now you’ve left S.H.I.E.L.D. Plus, you’re worth ten of Kissinger and the rest of the muddle-headed international relations brigade. And don’t you forget it.” Angie planted a smacking kiss on the back of Peggy’s head, where she had thunked down, headfirst, against the sea of paper. “They need someone to talk some sense into them in their own language.”

Peggy lifted her head, smiled at Angie and kissed her on the lips.

“Time to put the kettle on, I think,” she said, and rose decisively from her chair.

Angie shook her head. You could take the girl out of England, but not, it seemed, take England out of the girl: if in doubt, make a pot of tea.

Once they were comfortably ensconced on the settee together and were drinking their cups of tea, away from that overwhelming array of information, Angie really put her mind to the problem.

“What are your criteria for making a decision, here, Pegs?” she asked.

Peggy considered for a moment, then ticked off points on her fingers as she spoke.

“Well, it needs to be a good school, but not stuck up; forward thinking and open to new ideas, but with solid scholarship; have professors I respect and who have the research interests I’ll need to pursue the postgraduate programme.”

Angie snorted. “Not a lot to ask for.”

“Oh,” Peggy added, “and it needs to be commutable from our apartment.”

“You could always move,” Angie said.

Angie saw a small frown begin to crease Peggy’s forehead. She placed her teacup and saucer carefully down on the side table, and turned to face Angie straight on.

“My dear girl,” she said seriously, “if you think I’m going to leave you in order to pursue this, you are very much mistaken.”

“I could always come with you,” Angie replied quietly.

“Darling,” Peggy smiled, “don’t be silly. I know how rare permanent work is in the theatre. Jobs like yours are practically hen’s teeth. I’m not going to ask you, no, I’m not going to _let_ you give that up for anything less than a leading role on Broadway.”

Angie ducked her head. She still had a hard time believing, sometimes, that Peggy really did want to be with her, that she wouldn’t leave her for a better alternative, some day. When Peggy’s love and loyalty shone through like this, it always left her feeling so deeply humble, and like the luckiest girl alive. 

She looked back up at Peggy, and said simply, “I love you.”

“And I love you, darling,” Peggy replied, as if it were a simple fact of life. 

Angie felt her eyes becoming teary, and blinked them rapidly. 

“Given those criteria,” Peggy continued, “I suppose there are only really four options. Johns Hopkins, Georgetown, American and the Elliott School at George Washington.” Peggy tapped her lips with the tips of her fingers. “Georgetown is out, because one thing I am not is Catholic, which makes it a choice out of three.”

“If it was that simple, why is there that ocean of prospectuses in the dining room?” asked Angie, beginning to giggle.

“I am willing to concede that I was a little overenthusiastic in my eagerness to start on my new life project,” Peggy replied, primly. 

Peggy had the grace to look a little bashful as she picked up her cup and saucer and sipped her tea.

Angie broke out into full laughter, and Peggy joined her.

* * *

**1967**

Angie looked up at the stage from her seat among the proud parents watching their children graduate from the School of International Service. She wondered if she was the only one here to cheer on a lover. 

It had been a long six years for Peggy, and for Angie, too. Peggy’s fight to get accepted straight onto the Masters programme at the Elliott School was a doozy. Getting offered a place as a PhD candidate there though was an easy step, once they saw what Angie’s girl could do — but it was a tough course, even for someone as smart as Peggy. Much blood, sweat, and tears had been shed, and many swear words uttered. 

It had taken a concerted campaign for her professors to allow Peggy to complete and hand in her dissertation a full year before deadline, but now they were here, and Peggy was finally Doctor Margaret Carter. And more than that, there were three letters on creamy vellum at home in the bureau, confirming offers of a tenure track post, not only from the Elliott School at George Washington University, but also from both Johns Hopkins University _and_ the School of International Service at American University.

Angie was so proud she felt like the top of her head might pop off.

After the graduation ceremony was over, Peggy grudgingly sat for the photographer (that Angie had insisted on booking) in her academic gown and mortarboard. But then it was off to the real celebration, at the bar where Angie had invited Peggy all the way back in 1956. This time it wasn’t a date, but a celebration with all of their friends and acquaintances. 

Living in the same place and socialising in the same venues for a full eleven years meant that they had built up some deep and solid friendships, and Angie and Peggy had ended up a core part of lesbian life in DC. Peggy’s celebration wasn’t just for her; it was a celebration for the whole community: Peggy was one of their own, succeeding in a hostile world.

Josie was in front of the bar for the evening, rather than behind it. She waved and hooted as Angie and Peggy walked in, cupping her hands around her mouth to bellow, “Here’s the woman of the hour!”

Angie cheered along with half of the rest of the bar as Peggy covered her face in feigned embarrassment. 

“One has to keep up appearances,” she muttered to Angie as they made their way to the group of tables that Josie had pushed together to fit everyone. Once the hubbub died down and normal conversation started, it was just like an ordinary evening at the bar, just with a little more camaraderie.

“So, are you gonna bring a little lesbian perspective into the halls of academe, Peggy?” the question came from Janet, who had played a small role in the civil rights movement, and was one of the most outspoken feminists and lesbians that Angie knew.

“My first priority is to make sure my students can think for themselves, which will be a hard enough job all by itself,” Peggy replied with a snort. “Bringing in views from elsewhere than the crumbly old married white men of the establishment may have to wait.”

“I know you better’n that, Miss Pegs.” The interjection came from their friend Bernice, who was from North Carolina and liked to play up her Southern accent. She even claimed to be a Southern Belle, despite smoking cigars, never wearing skirts or make-up, and being tough as old boots. “You’ll have ‘em all out hollerin’ for rights for women and blacks and queers before they know what’s hit ‘em!” 

“Hmmmm,” was all Peggy had to say to that, restraining herself to a sip of Scotch and a demure smile, “we shall see.”

Angie laughed out loud; she had no doubt that Bernice was absolutely correct.

* * *

**1973**

“Peggy!” cried Angie as she burst through the front door of their apartment. “Peggy Peggy Peggy Peggy Peggy!”

Peggy’s head appeared around the door into the kitchen. 

“What on earth is it darling? You sound excited.”

“Oh my gosh, Peggy, I’m going to Russia!”

The whole of Peggy was abruptly in the hallway. 

“What? When, Angie? How? Why?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it,” Angie said, bouncing on her toes.

“It’ll need to be in the kitchen,” Peggy countered. “Dinner is at a critical stage.”

She returned to the kitchen, and Angie followed. 

“It’s…” Angie started, but stopped again as Peggy held up her finger for quiet while she stirred vigorously at the contents of a pan on the hob. Angie sat down, then got up again; rested against the countertop, then started pacing next to the refrigerator.

“There,” Peggy said finally, turning off the gas and putting a lid on the pan. She sat on the little wooden chair that lived in their kitchen, and looked up at Angie attentively.

“You know the cultural exchange that started between America and Russia in 1958?” Angie started.

“Of course. It was one of a very few bright spots in that benighted era,” Peggy replied.

“Well, guess which theater company is part of that exchange this year. And guess who’s going as part of the company!”

Peggy’s face broke open in a smile of delight. She got up from her chair, and a moment later, Angie was enveloped in her arms. Peggy squeezed her tight as they both bounced.

“That’s amazing, Ang,” Peggy said as they broke apart to arms’ length. “And so well deserved. Let’s crack open some wine to celebrate!”

They ended up having the wine with the meal that Peggy had cooked.

“This is delicious, Peggy,” Angie managed around a mouthful.

“Thank you, darling. I aim to please,” Peggy replied and winked at Angie, so that she giggled, still buzzing with her news.

After a few more mouthfuls, Peggy asked, “How long will the tour be?”

“October and most of November,” Angie replied. “It’s a long time to be away,” she said, her mood dipping as she realised for the first time just how long she would be away from Peggy.

“But just think of all the adventures you’ll have to tell me about when you get back,” Peggy said, the smile Angie thought of as her ‘troublemaker’ on those wicked lips.

“I wish you could come with me,” Angie said, smiling wanly in response.

Peggy paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.

“Now, there’s a thought,” she said. “You know, if I talk to the Dean, and the right people at the State Department, I might just be able to swing it — and get paid for it, too.”

“Really?” cried Angie. 

“Oh, if I can, darling,” Peggy smiled back, “I will.”

\--

It was a warm, bright morning in June as they made their way to the south-west corner of Central Park. Angie was more jittery than Peggy had seen her in years, but it was a pleased, happy excitement that was causing her to practically vibrate in her skin. She was wearing her glasses with the big frames, a pair of high-waisted brown corduroys, and sunny yellow t-shirt that their host, Maisie, had screen printed for her just a few days before. The words emblazoned in crimson across Angie’s chest read I AM A LESBIAN.

Peggy could not be prouder. It had been a while since Angie had felt the insecurities she used to be so plagued with, but wearing those words on her person so publicly was not a step Peggy had ever imagined Angie taking.

 _Mind you_ , she thought, looking up at the placard she herself was carrying, _if you’d told me I’d be walking through the centre of Manhattan, waving a sign saying LESBIANS ARE LOVELY, back in 1956, I’d have assumed you’d been sampling Stark’s experimental ‘mind enhancers’._

Peggy linked arms with Angie as they got closer to the park, and the number of placards and banners they could see increased. 

“We should make up a version of pub cricket for this march,” mused Peggy. 

“Pub _what_?” asked Angie.

“Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t have that here,” Peggy replied. “It’s a game we used to play on long, boring drives when I was a child. Whenever you pass a pub, you count up the number of legs in the pub sign, and the person who has the highest score at the end of the journey wins.”

“How are there legs in a pub sign?” asked Angie, stopping for a moment to visibly boggle at Peggy. 

“Well, The Coach and Horses, that’s eighteen legs: four for each horse and two for the coachman,” Peggy explained. “The White Swan would just be two, of course, but if it has The Dirty Duck on the other side of the pub sign, it’s actually four.”

“Stop, stop!” Angie exclaimed. “I love your weird Englishness, English, I really do, but this is just too bizarre.”

“The word you’re looking for, darling, is eccentric,” Peggy responded with a grin, then got them moving again towards the mass of people gathered ready for the start of the parade.

At the very front was a massive banner, held aloft by six young men. (At least, she thought they were all men; it was so hard to tell these days. And didn’t she feel old, thinking that!) It looked decidedly homemade, but was clearly also the official banner to lead off the march. It read, “CHRISTOPHER STREET GAY PRIDE MARCH 1973. 4th annual christopher street gay pride day.”

Peggy and Angie walked together towards the back of the gathering, until they were both stopped in their tracks at the sight of a large banner held up by two black women with beautiful afro hairdos, which read “A Day Without Lesbians Is Like A Day Without Sunshine.”

Peggy turned to Angie and asked, “Here?”

Angie nodded decisively, and replied, “Here.”

They tucked themselves into the crowd behind the banner, and readied themselves to march.

It was a highly enjoyable day: not at all what Peggy had imagined a political demonstration to be. Peggy and Angie took it in turns to hold their placard, pointing out the funniest or the bluest banners and t-shirts to one another. There were slogans and songs, a marching band, and drag queens by the dozen. Peggy and Angie had always kept themselvers to lesbian bars, cafes and clubs in DC, so they were a new experience for Peggy. 

“Drag queens are the best!” Angie told her, when Peggy said as much. “In San Francisco, we always used to say, if you’re in trouble, don’t find a policeman: find a drag queen or a diesel dyke.”

Peggy nodded sagely. “I shall remember that advice.”

Just then a, black drag queen wearing a gold lamé dress, a huge, curly blond wig, and sparkling purple roller skates danced past. She paused at the sight of the large banner in front of where Peggy and Angie were marching, and read it aloud.

“‘A day without lesbians is like a day without sunshine.’” She looked around, mugging in mock surprise at all the women around her. “Honey,” she announced to the crowd, “we’ve got sunshine for daaaaaays!” and skated off again.

Cheering and whistling rose up from the crowd. Peggy and Angie looked at one another in stunned silence for a moment, then laughed.

“We really have, haven’t we?” Peggy asked Angie, pulling her close.

“Yep. We sure have,” replied Angie, and drew Peggy in for a long and sensuous kiss.

[](https://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/185733592056/peggy-and-angie-find-their-pride-in-days-of)

\--

Peggy looked up from her armchair spot in the corner of the room, and her breath caught in her throat. Angie was standing by the window. She was still dressed in the simple corduroys and the I AM A LESBIAN t-shirt she’d worn for the march, but the reflected light from the murky sunset surrounding her gave her an ethereal glow. 

“Angie, darling.”

Peggy’s voice was quiet, but carrying. Angie turned to look at her over her shoulder, arms still crossed from her contemplation of the street below. She made an interrogative noise. 

“Come here.” 

Peggy’s voice developed a purr, and Angie raised an eyebrow at her in amusement.

“I thought we were planning to go out again soon,” she said with a smirk.

“I’d rather stay in,” replied Peggy, holding out her left hand to Angie, using the right to pat her thighs in invitation.

“You gonna make it worth my while to miss the after-party?” Angie asked as she straddled Peggy’s lap. Peggy’s hands caressed her neck, her hip.

“Oh, my girl, my darling sunshine,” said Peggy, leaning in for a kiss, “and how.”

 

FIN


End file.
